Figments
by Horribibble
Summary: At approximately 8:15 on Friday morning, Arthur Kirkland was fairly certain that he was going to die at the hands of his own imagination.  Just remember that it's all in your head.  Modern Fantasy. AU. USxUK, more pairings to come.
1. Knock

**A/N: **The idea for this little monster came to me after finals ended. It all sprouted from the first line. Now here I sit, wondering just where to go from here. We shall see, I suppose. This is my first attempt at _posting _anything in this fandom, so I hope you enjoy it.

**Fandom: **Hetalia

**Pairings: **US x UK, more to come.

**Rating: **M

**Disclaimer: **I make no profit from writing this. Beat it, briefcase.

* * *

><p><strong>n. <strong>

_I. A mere product of mental invention; a fantastic notion. _

_II. A feigned, invented, or imagined story, theory, etc._

_From Late Latin figmentum: a fiction; From Latin fingere: to shape. _

* * *

><p><em><strong>F<strong>igments_

-1-

_**K**nock_

* * *

><p>By approximately 8:15 on Friday morning, Arthur Kirkland was fairly sure that he had gone completely mad.<p>

He placed the thought's occurrence at around 8:15 because by the time he hurtled past the clock maker's shop, the neatly-arranged, finely-tuned faces peered back a jaunty 8:25, and he felt about as winded as he did after a brisk ten minute run.

Granted, his usual run wasn't carried out in his work uniform, and it _**never**_ involved darting an and out of traffic—bicycles, maybe, but never _**cars**_.

He was supposed to be boring.

Completely dry.

His personality was sour after years as the scrawny, bookish middle brother, and his features—which may have been otherwise quite attractive—were spoiled by his thick eyebrows, more than a little ill-suited for his face. His mother had tried for years to convince him that the monstrous things 'added character', but he wasn't quite that gullible.

In short, unusual things really should not have happened to dull, dry Arthur Kirkland. He awoke in the morning at 7 'o clock sharp, took his routine run through the park, and picked up his morning tea and pastry. His morning, thereafter, was occupied by his work preparation and morning commute, if one could call the short walk to the cafe that had, mercifully, employed the bushy-browed cynic as a waiter a 'commute'.

Any passing observer could tell you the sandy blonde man lived and breathed on schedule. Men like him did not go running through the bustling streets in blind panic to escape hulking, sharp-toothed monsters that _were not there_.

Unless, by 'hulking, sharp-toothed monster', you meant 'the prospect of being five minutes late'.

Men like him were the taupe-colored pillars of modern society, quiet and unassuming and painfully mundane.

_Khaki people_.

They didn't know what 'monsters' were.

* * *

><p>...Then again, it wasn't as if Arthur had been completely sane to begin with. Any one of his<p>

numerous family members could tell you that, since childhood, the black sheep of the Kirkland family had professed an ability to see faeries.

For years, he'd insisted that the fair folk were all around them. In the beginning, it had been charming. His mother had smiled and kissed her darling dreamer-child good-night, and may Mab herself guard his slumber.

And so old Mab did, but his mother had no way of knowing what glorious adventures the bewitching charioteer had brought for her precious little Arthur.

Years passed, and little Peter came along. His older brother's claims of magic in the waking world were relegated to quickly outgrown faerie tales, and finally dissolved into the immature fabrications of a needy middle child. The Kirklands no longer had time to indulge their awkward son's outlandish (and often _unsettling_) stories.

Stories, stories.

All Arthur had were stories.

But he'd never once told a story about a thing like this.

He'd never once _seen _a thing like this.

They'd always said he had an overactive imagination.

And now, it was going to kill him.

* * *

><p>Sometimes, we find religion in the strangest places. Hymns beneath highway overpasses.<p>

Baptisms at bus stops.

Prayer in a prison sentence.

G-d in a gunshot.

* * *

><p>When Arthur Kirkland opened his eyes, his addled brain was still sorting out the smell of <em>chk-bang<em>, the sound of gunpowder, and the taste of, _'Oh, G-d, I'm going to die.'_

The first thing he saw was a horribly bright purple mass from squeezing his eyes shut too tight.

The next was a pair of jean-clad thighs framing the now-limp corpse of Arthur's 'imaginary friend'.

He had to be crazy. If he were sane, there was no way his first act after having his life saved by some random, gun-toting stranger would be to admire the snug fit said stranger's _jeans_ had on his _ass_.

"Hey."

"Uh...a-ahh...?" Arthur found himself remarkably short on words as his gaze traveled upward,

over the broad, strong back. There, angled over a crisply-defined shoulder, was a pair of inhumanly blue eyes.

The butt of the gun, as well, the barrel pointing skyward, and the butt of the cigarette dangling precariously from his lips—a frame for Arthur's newest manic hallucination.

"Hey. You're pretty fast for such a little guy."

"'_Little'_...?"

That was the first time that Arthur saw his shit-eating grin, coming closer, sinking to his level. And then that wide, pouting mouth was _right there_ in front of him.

"Aw," The man nearly whined, cupping a flushed cheek in a warm, calloused palm, "Don't be sore at me, Arthur."

"How—?" He choked on a sudden coughing fit, and the man shifted to lightly rub his back through the thin material of his work shirt.

The flush wasn't going away any time soon.

"How did you know my name?"

Those big, blue eyes stared at him for a long moment, and Arthur found himself wondering if, perhaps, he weren't as safe as he'd thought. Another million dollar smile popped up before the Briton could make any accusations.

"Because you're Arthur," He shrugged, as if that explained everything, and then came the, "Duh."

'Duh'.

The single most useless article in the 'English' language, excepting, perhaps, the continued

cross-cultural rape of 'like' and 'ahmmmm'.

Suddenly, Arthur found it much easier to ignore the pleasantness of the man's features.

He took the opportunity to drum up his best acerbic glare.

"Oh, come on. Don't look at me like that, Arthur." Still with the smile. The man could get away with murder—

—_with—_

Arthur leaned to the side, saved from shredding his shirt on the dirty bricks of the alley wall only by the continued presence of the stranger's hand_, _staring pointedly at the leaking corpse mere paces away.

An alley.

Whatever it was had chased him into an alley. How nauseatingly predictable.

Light fingers drummed nervously against his back, and the taller man—blonde, _sunshine blonde_, Arthur thought—cleared his throat. "If you wanna be sick, it's okay. I've got tissues."

Arthur snorted.

Trust this dope to come up with something so crass and earthy in such a surreal situation. Still, he wouldn't deny that the lighthearted attitude was more than a little comforting in this situation. He'd been more than a little concerned that there was another shot reserved for him when he'd processed the presence of a firearm, but he couldn't bring himself to wonder now.

He should have. He really should have, but instead, he shook his head, "This is _too _bloody weird."

"Not really." The hand on his back smoothed steadily upward until it came to rest at the nape of his neck, playing with the soft strands of his hair, "Not if you think about it."

"And why should I believe you? A few moments ago, I was running for my life from that fucking _thing_, and you just came up and—and _shot _it! Like it's fucking monster season!"

The man giggled at the last bit, and Arthur was struck by the sudden urge to smack him upside the head. It occurred to Arthur that he really _should _be crying, right about now.

"Why...why _do _I trust you? Why do you know my _name?_"

He felt himself start to shiver, and suddenly that warm hand was cupping his cheek again, "Just think about it, Arthur."

And there it was, just like a gunshot—recognition.

Unearthly understanding.

Never once had a faerie asked his name.

"Not quite, but you're getting there."

"Shut up, Alfred. Just, please..._shut up_."

"You're gonna be late for work, ya know?"

It was only then, after that short, ordinary sentence that Arthur—quiet, khaki, _**crazy **_Arthur Kirkland_**—**_began to cry.

And Alfred pulled out the tissues.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **There you have it. I'll endeavor to come up with a good direction for this story. Feel free to contact me on MSN if you've any ideas. ;)


	2. I

-x

-_What sound, in the forest?_

_ -A strange one, passed down for ages, yet only once._

_-x  
><em>

* * *

><p>-x<p>

**F**irst **I**nterlude

_Regarding Peter, who was outgrown fairytales._

_-x  
><em>

* * *

><p>-x<p>

Through no small effort on the part of his mother, his father, and the youngest of his older brothers, Peter Kirkland is a sweet boy. Not precisely sugar-sweet, but enough to make the previously mentioned three sigh with relief.

He doesn't frolic with woodland creatures singing Disney tunes, and he doesn't go about hugging the homeless, but he helps with the chores without inciting a small-scale rebellion, and he returns money when he sees it dropped on the street.

He may refer to Arthur as his 'jerk brother', but he truly is aware that the older male is only strict out of love. Unlike the rest of their merry band of brothers, who had been all too glad to attempt using the youngest of their brood as the ball in games of football. He might have hero-worshiped Arthur, were it not for a few minor hang-ups.

-x

* * *

><p>-x<p>

First, when Arthur rescued him from the older boys' various attempts at maiming their baby brother, he tended to get his ass handed to him. On a silver platter. With a garnish of humiliation and a pinch of extra pain. And it didn't always discourage them. It _did _consistently draw the attention of the great and looming force that was Father.

-x

* * *

><p>-x<p>

Second, he actually _believed_ the looney tales he'd been telling Peter since before the younger boy could possibly understand anything Arthur said to him. While it was wonderful at first, those same borderline sociopaths that their mother had supposedly birthed before them were quick to obliterate every single sense of wonder. Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy—though Arthur himself denied that one, at least the modern version—all quickly dissolved, leaving only strange, socially 'behind' Arthur to plead his case in a world that required far too much evidence.

-x

* * *

><p>-x<p>

Third, the man was just too smart. Their brothers were a mob of aimless ruffians destined to take over the family pub and (if they were all lucky) spend each of their lives striving to _avoid _a long and colorful criminal record. Thus far, fortune had smiled upon them, but it was painfully obvious that Molly and Hugh wouldn't be surprised to see their redheaded hellions in bright orange jumpsuits.

Arthur, however, had presented them with a bar to raise. It seemed, sometimes, as if he absorbed entire tomes by osmosis. Which meant that it wasn't just a cosmic joke being played on the present generation of Kirkland offspring. Still, Peter found himself resenting him at times. He actually had to _study_, to work at improving his future prospects. His father had told him once, when his mother was safely out of the room, that he was far too pretty a lad to do well in prison, so he'd best get a diploma.

-x

* * *

><p>-x<p>

After that, he'd nearly run himself ragged trying to study as often as he possibly could. In bed, on the swings, leaning half-out of the bath—until Arthur had come along on one of his visits and sort-of saved him yet again.

He'd plucked the book from Peter's sliding grip and pointedly _pushed_ his pretty blonde head back against the pillow with an order to 'Get some bloody sleep, already.'

The younger Kirkland had been too busy to object, but it wouldn't have been anything new. It wasn't fair that Arthur had run off to his own place and his mediocre job and left Peter with the ever-present hell horde. It had all been said before, and the only thing it ever netted him was a sad smile or a sigh.

Instead, he fell asleep to the feel of his brother's fingers toying with his hair and the strange sensation of dragonfly wings brushing his cheek.

After that, his mother told him, Arthur had gone downstairs to have a talk with the heads of the household. Apparently Arthur was far better at gathering his evidence these days, because his parents seemed to quite enjoy the idea of hiring their youngest son a 'tutor'.

-x

* * *

><p>-x<p>

To be honest, Tino is more of a nanny than a tutor, but their father prefers having a more masculine term for the newest addition to their twisted-traditional family unit.

Peter doesn't really care either way, but when Seamus called the petite man a 'fairy' during their first meeting, Tino had laughed, bright and cheerful, before trapping the much bigger man in something of an improvised full nelson. It had been absolutely _brilliant_.

It may well have been that show of power that let Peter relax in spite of the man's otherwise delicate and motherly nature. He had a way of soothing his upsets, focusing his attention, and coaxing his every improvement with the same gentle tone of voice and pleasant smile.

And each time Tino moved to direct him or point out an answer, the bell on his bracelet would softly jingle. It was a sweet and pleasant sound.

One of Peter's favorites.

It told him that Tino was nearby, that Tino was coming.

-x

* * *

><p>-x<p>

Even if Tino _was_ a fairy, Peter didn't mind. When he told him so, it seemed to amuse the Finnish man.

He chuckled and lilted, "Is that so?"

"Well, I mean, it's all right if _you _are."

"I see." Tino tapped under his winking right eye, once again jingling with the movement.

_That's the right answer, Peter. _

_That's good._

_-x  
><em>

* * *

><p>-x<p>

**A/N**: A brief interlude for you. Isn't it strange, how people can meet?

**Technical Note: **If you have read this entire chapter in italics, it's not for lack of my struggling to fix it. 's uploading system, once again, has decided to eat my formatting. -.- It looked nicer, but I guess that's too much to ask for.


	3. Jaunt

**A/N: **I know I should be updating other things, but I'm pretty excited that I've got a strong, complex concept for this one. I hate to spoil the surprise, so do keep in mind, especially with Figments... not everything is as it seems. **KiDGE**, you're pretty much exactly in line with Arthur at this point. **Wayward's Passenger**, I'm sorry if the censoring put you off, but I was conditioned to preserve it from my 'imperfect' writing. xD

**Fandom: **Hetalia

**Pairings: **US x UK, _**'**_FR x CAN_**'**_, AUS x HUN

**Rating: **M

**Disclaimer: **I make no profit from writing this. Beat it, briefcase.

* * *

><p><em>Opportunity may knock time and time again, <em>

_but it is up to each of us to get up and answer the door.  
><em>

* * *

><p><em><strong>F<strong>igments_

-2-

_**J**aunt_

* * *

><p>Arthur liked to think that he was a pretty good judge of character, but in reality, that probably wouldn't hold much salt. He'd talked Elizaveta, the manager at the cafe, into letting Sadik spend his mornings at a corner booth in the back. The man couldn't do much harm, after all, he was just one muttering drunk.<p>

Except that made him Arthur's problem.

Thus, when Alfred urged Arthur into the cafe with a surprisingly gentle hand on his back, Elizaveta was less than happy with all of the friendly ass-patting she had been forced to endure in his absence.

So when she whipped around, hot coffee sloshing against the notched glass walls of the pot, she was fully prepared to give him a piece of her mind...until she saw the blotchy cheeks and puffy eyes.

Sadik barely caught the pot before Elizaveta's special, scalding-hot resurrection-blend coffee could empty itself all over his lap. He took it surprisingly well, really, pouring a bit into his cup before setting the container gently atop his table.

And then pulling out a silver flask.

Arthur rolled his eyes, snapping at the Turk to _put it away_ before Elizaveta took his face between soft, work-warm palms. "Arthur, are you all right? What happened? Who's this? Did he hurt you? Should I hurt _him_?"

The brunette turned a nasty glare on Alfred, rising a bit on her toes to make herself seem more intimidating. It didn't really work. Alfred just started laughing.

Arthur lifted a hand to pat one of hers before removing both from his cheeks, "It's all right, Liz. Really. Alfred's an old friend, and I haven't seen him in a while."

There was a flash of silver from the corner, and Arthur broke away, stalking towards the drunkard in the booth, "Whot? Didn't hear me the first time? Put that _away_."

"An old friend, huh?" Elizaveta's lips curled into a wicked smile, her mind already buzzing with possibilities—delightfully _improper_ possibilities—as she looked the tall blonde up and down.

A lesser man may have been intimidated. Alfred just smiled, "Mmhm."

"So you just...ran into him in the park?"

"Something like that."

She waited a few moments, turning to stand beside Alfred, both watching as Arthur bickered with the worn-looking regular. Really, it wasn't hard to tell that the man was miserable. It was a relief to watch Arthur fuss over him—someone had to. The ornery Brit was _good _at it, made Sadik feel more at ease. Or at least, less likely to dump obscene amounts of alcohol into his coffee.

Small miracles—it seemed Arthur was beginning to wean the man towards (of all things) apple juice.

Whether he realized it or not, Arthur was a good person—a _people _person. Not the obnoxiously social sort, but the sort that made people feel just that little bit better.

Hot or not, this guy needed to be worthy before she started snapping candids.

"Any plans for catching up? A nice dinner, maybe?"

"I was thinking of taking him to a gallery, once he gets off work."

Elizaveta jerked, blinking owlishly, "A gallery?"

A gallery?

Would Arthur enjoy that?

He appreciated literature, and she was fairly certain he'd mentioned a few free museum exhibits, but liking 'art' and 'art galleries' were two entirely different things. She'd learned that about a month into dating Roderich...and the _entire Edelstein family_. She'd see someone for her 'comportment' issues as soon as 'Dame Edelstein' saw someone for her 'pretentious controlling snit' issues.

"Yeah. It's a traveling collection, but it should be in town for a while."

Another quick look up and down, "I don't mean to be an ass, but...isn't there a dress code?" She gestured to his tight jeans, "They look nice, but..."

Alfred shook his head, his easy smile undisturbed, "I know the owner."

* * *

><p>Some people say that art speaks to them.<p>

If they speak back, they're crazy.

Crazy,

crazy,

crazy.

* * *

><p>Elizaveta let him off work early.<p>

Unusually early.

Arthur-thought-he-was-being-fired early.

But she'd just laughed and hugged him and told him that it was _probably_ bad form to leave your date playing sugar-packet 'Take Two' with the drunk Turk in the corner booth for more than an hour.

He had told her that Alfred wasn't his date, but Elizaveta had arched a delicate brow and tapped her dishwater-manicured nails against the nearest counter. "I'm sorry," She lilted, "Did you not see his _ass_?"

"You're letting me off work after an hour because Alfred has a nice ass?"

"You're arguing?"

* * *

><p>The walk to the gallery was surprisingly pleasant, considering Arthur's jumbled nerves.<p>

Alfred's spirits, on the other hand, weren't dampened in the slightest.

Arthur was amazed the man hadn't cut ties with the pavement and floated off like a child's balloon. As it was, he'd taken to circling the shorter man, alternating between walking backward and forward as he beamed down from above.

Recalling the fact that this playful man had recently pulled the trigger and relieved something of its life made the waiter more than a bit uncomfortable, but...

"Arthur?"

Alfred had stopped walking just in front of him, barely giving him the time to stop short of a collision.

"Oh, what _now_, Alfred?"

"Cheer up, okay? I'm taking you to somebody who can explain everything. It'll make sense, I promise." He raised four fingers and winked.

Arthur couldn't help but snicker.

"Huh?"

The smaller man reached up to gently put down his little finger before giving his hand a pat, "Only three, Alfred." A pause, then, "...I believe you. I've no idea _why_, but I believe you. It's just a bit...hard to relax."

"After something tried to eat you. I totally understand."

He wrapped an arm around Arthur's shoulder, turning him appropriately so he could slot the Brit neatly into his side, both facing once more towards the goal.

"It happens often, then?"

"...Things have been picking up, lately."

Once again, Arthur's heart migrated in an entirely unpleasant fashion. "How _exciting_. I don't suppose I can opt out of this?"

Alfred's arm tightened, and he gave Arthur a surprisingly serious look, "Everything will make sense, Arthur. All you have to do is listen."

The rest of the walk was quiet.

* * *

><p>The entrance to the gallery was clean and modern. Surprising, really, for a building that, supposedly, contained the answers to Arthur's malicious oozing monster problem.<p>

Only...

"There's no sign."

"We're still getting settled in. Everyone's going to love you."

"'Everyone'? Just how many 'somebody's are going to explain this, Alfred?"

Alfred just chuckled, once again tugging Arthur along, "What's a gallery without art?"

* * *

><p>Having received no sensible answer to his entirely valid question, Arthur entered the pleasantly arranged gallery feeling more than a little miffed. He'd nearly been eaten just this morning, and the only person on hand to answer his questions was treating him as if he were a silly little schoolboy.<p>

There was a light, airy whistle, and the most pretentious French accent Arthur had ever heard rang out, "Regardez, Matthieu! A sasquatch!"

The Englishman stopped short, suddenly much hotter in the face, bunching up to give the idiot Frenchman a good talking to.

"Shut up, Francis. Not all men preen like _you_ do."

And the man actually slumped, just a little. Arthur was struck with the impression of a wilting flower, or a particularly lethargic peacock.

He was certainly flashy enough, standing in the middle of the spacious but well-appointed gallery in his carefully-planned designer clothes. He was smiling in a vague attempt at graciousness, as if he were gracing the wooden floors (and every pair of tasteless shoes to tread them) with his presence.

He was tempted to knock the man down another peg with a childish—albeit satisfying—potshot, until he noticed the other blonde standing beside him, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

And more than a little bit like Alfred's carbon copy.

"Arthur, this is my brother, Matthew. And his pet chihuahua."

"_Francis_, you insufferable tool. My name is _Francis Bonnefoy_. I am Matthieu's 'Spectator'."

When 'Matthew' finally spoke, his voice was surprisingly quiet—especially for someone with supposed blood ties to the walking sunbeam who _still _maintained a possessive grip on the frazzled Englishman.

"He doesn't know what that means yet, Francis." Something about his tone seemed doubtful, but he pressed on, slumped under everyone's scrutiny, "B-but it's good that you found him, Al."

Arthur didn't get the impression that it was really such a good thing, after all. Not with the way Matthew was looking at him.

Like he pitied him.

Like he was about to cry.

Like the way Arthur used to look at his brothers' new pets, but a thousand times worse.

Alfred's thumb stroked absently at his shoulder at the feeling of tensing muscles, but he doubted the taller man really _noticed_. Something about Matthew seemed as if he were accustomed to being forgotten.

Arthur began to wish that _he _could be so lucky.

"Yeah," He smiled, "It was a real big entrance, too. One of 'em cornered Arthur—but no way I'd ever let them lay a slimy tentacle on—Arthur? Are you okay?"

Oh, he was just peachy. Just a little paler than he'd been moments ago. By about five shades of 'Scared Shitless'. "_Tentacles?_"

"Tsk, tsk. You should be more careful, Alfred. With eyebrows like _zat, _he could 'ave given the poor creature indigestion."

"If you're so worried about the damned things, I'll be perfectly happy to feed you to the _next _one. I understand frog's legs are a delicacy?"

Alfred beamed like a five-year-old just after being informed of an upcoming trip to Disney World. Francis was far less pleased. A shame, because Arthur was quite content with himself.

"Somehow, I do not think they would find me as _filling_, Dinner, but I appreciate your acknowledgment of my country's culinary superiority."

Under any other circumstances, Arthur probably would've blown the comment off as self-effacing narcissism, but at the time, it made him want to go for the throat. Except Alfred was _still holding onto him._

He struggled, of course, but Alfred ended up squeezing so hard Arthur was fairly sure he could feel the old spiderweb of cracks on his ribs from a childhood spent with what his poor mother called 'The Red Horde'. It was a step up. His father usually called them a 'Ruddy Bunch of Bastards' and went about cuffing and boxing as he saw fit.

Francis might have laughed at the unpleasant Gaellic mutterings that Arthur had taken to spitting like little venomous barbs, were it not for the newest addition to their unhappy assembly. As it stood, he took to straightening himself up and clearing his throat.

He opened his mouth—probably for some snooty French pleasantry—but the lady would have none of it. Honey brown eyes regarded them sternly from what was, otherwise, quite a pretty face. It was surprising how menacing a girl with pigtails could be, given sufficient motivation.

She arched a delicate brow at Alfred, and Arthur's feet returned to the smooth wooden floor—doubly frustrating, because Arthur hadn't been aware he'd _left _it.

"Ah...hey, Sasha."

"Hello, Alfred." She softened a bit at the edges, nodding her head at Arthur's captor before turning back to Francis and—a suddenly much _less _comfortable Matthew. He twisted slightly, as if the weight of Francis' hand on his hip suddenly burned him, and the offending palm fell away.

"Excuse me, miss." Arthur hesitated only slightly, fumbling in his mind for some way to relieve the poor boy. It worked well enough. She turned her attention to him, certainly, but it seemed she was none too pleased to see _him_, either. "Pardon, but...your accent is terribly interesting. Might I ask where you're from?"

The three other blondes in the room looked at him as if he'd made some surprising accomplishment, and Sasha parted her lips, her brow furrowing in some faint confusion. "Where I'm...from?"

She glanced at one of the paintings on the wall—a landscape dominated by shades of blue, sea and sky, respectively—a small stretch of beachfront with a worn wooden pier with a small boat and what looked like scattered fishing equipment. Arthur couldn't quite tell, as his father had always preferred hunting, but it seemed strange to see such important equipment strewn about with no people in sight.

...Unsettling.

She looked back at him, a strange look replacing her previous hostility, "An island. On the coast."

She turned on the the heel of one bare foot, and Arthur only briefly took note of the ribbons criss-crossing her ankles before the peculiarity of it struck him. Bare feet, in a gallery?

For the beach, maybe, but...

"Father Rome."

She spoke softly, but it seemed to echo in the open space.

* * *

><p>The tall man standing before them was an even more impressive figure than Alfred. If he had the inclinations to describe the man in prose, he may have described him as some sort of god, so large was his presence.<p>

Grand.

Far-reaching.

And unnatural.

He smiled, a handsome gesture, playing on nice teeth and a pleasant laugh. He held his arms open in a gesture of welcome, and Arthur wasn't precisely certain whether he should clasp arms with the man or bow his head, as everyone but Alfred seemed to be doing.

He glanced about nervously for a moment, "I'm sorry...?"

The man shook his head gently, as if he were sympathetic to the sizeable headache all of this was shaping up to be, "It is a great pleasure to finally meet you, Arthur. "

Lovely.

He wondered if it counted as talking to strangers if _all of them already knew your name_.

* * *

><p><em>In ancient times, a wall was built. <em>

What fools these mortals be.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Let the conjecture begin. :) I hope you've all enjoyed this chapter. From here on, things should be getting interesting. I apologize in advance for any confusion I may cause you, but remember: Everything will make sense. All you have to do is listen.

...Why is it that this site hates indentation so much? OO


	4. II

_Be careful that the apple of your eye_

_does not fall to the floor_

_and rot underfoot._

_-x  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>-<strong>x**  
><strong>

**S**econd **I**nterlude

_Turkish Coffee_

_**x-**  
><em>

* * *

><p>-x<p>

There are so many different kinds of filters.

For cameras, for coffee.

But everything diffuses through them, steadily. Unless something is broken.

Unless something short circuits and overflows.

It looks like you're going to be late for work, again.

x-

* * *

><p>-x<p>

Some mornings will always be better than others.

It depends on how loudly you yelled the night before, whether or not it was what your former neighbors referred to as a 'makeup night'.

It depends on whether there's a sleepy smile or a muzzy, muffled hum of recognition waiting for you when you open your eyes.

These are the best days of your life, but that's not something you're smart enough to realize.

You're too busy.

You're far more concerned with all the noise.

Which makes it all the more disconcerting when everything suddenly goes quiet.

x-

* * *

><p>-x<p>

It's almost as if you're suddenly living underwater.

As if you could touch the side of your neck and feel raised ridges—gills, keeping you alive no matter how hard you try to drown yourself in alcohol.

You have a steady source of income—a damned good one. Any other time, you'd brag. Now, it's just an inanimate enabler, pressing cash into your palm so you can keep affording to live like this.

You sleep on the couch because you absolutely _will not _touch the bed.

You spend more time in bars and dives until you finally find one to your taste. A classy place, run by a bunch of loud, ornery redheads from England or Ireland or some European 'land' involved in that whole touchy mess.

They could care less about the bundled-up drunk drinking himself through the filter as long as he keeps paying and doesn't play at being a violent drunk.

They're almost loud enough for you to pay attention to the rough brogues and lilting drawls playing a low bass tone in your mind.

You're one shallow step away from spilling onto the table.

Some nights, you're not sure you're alive until you pay the tab.

x-

* * *

><p>-x<p>

In your head, the loudest sound is the sound of the door slamming shut. At the beginning, everything seemed so much more clear. Almost startling.

And then everything seeped through the floorboards.

You are tempted, one night, to go to the apartment downstairs and knock on the door. You want to ask for an emotional refund, or something like that.

Instead, you stare at the frame and wood and handle, and decide that it isn't worth it. You won't be able to sleep in that bed, regardless. The door will slam shut again.

And it might get you evicted.

x-

* * *

><p>-x<p>

Really, it's a miracle that you weren't evicted already.

A long time ago.

During the best days of your life.

Back when you really wouldn't have cared.

x-

* * *

><p>-x<p>

It's a sad, sad thing when you realize you're a much nicer person drunk than you ever were sober.

One of the redheads pats your back one night when you've finally drunk so much you can't hold up your head, and it's hit the table with a hard 'thwack'ing noise. Smooth, expensive wood. You're all about uncomfortable angles, and you sleep on a couch. Why bother moving?

So the loudest and burliest of the bunch pats you on the back and calls you a 'right lamb', and you realize that you haven't slept in days. You tried counting sheep, but you can remember the sound of someone else counting them _for _you.

Every last one of your muscles is sore and you realize dimly that your hands are shaking.

x-

* * *

><p>-x<p>

The irony is that you haven't broken a single thing drunk.

Sober is a completely different story.

It was almost a specialty when you were sober.

You can remember a time when light didn't bother your nearly as much, when you could wake up (because you had actually slept) without feeling as if the sun was trying to teach you something.

When there was compensation.

You remember the morning after another night of carnal apologies—curtains torn down by you can't remember which one of you—with the sunlight rushing in like a pushy Hispanic maid, determined to clear the dust from the corners and the hang-ups from your relationship.

If it were a movie, they would probably be piping in some subdued rendition of 'La Vie en Rose'. You thought so, then, and couldn't help but laugh.

You could feel a pair of lips smiling lazily against your skin, followed by a muffled, 'old man'. The rumbling underneath probably woke the brat up, and he didn't bother to scold you, because it was a nice morning.

Even if you both went blind.

One of you could start a fight about the curtains, later. Right then, you were busy hoping that maybe things would get better.

x-

* * *

><p>-x<p>

You can't remember ever really crying before.

Now, it's almost like a seasoning in your drink—whatever alcohol you mindlessly swallow, with a twist of salt water.

Your shaking hands are starting to become a problem, and you've taken to wearing a silly little costume mask because the bags and bloody webs about your eyes have apparently begun to startle people.

The buzzing and sighing and throbbing in your head is louder, tonight, and you actually manage to look up. Because something is different.

One of the redheads is talking to a shorter blonde, if it can really be called 'talking'. The smaller man looks as if his head might pop right off of his shoulders, if he doesn't launch himself over the bar top first.

And then he's glancing back at you, jerking a bit because he's noticed your mask. You access old, old, old muscle memory and give smiling a shot. Really, it's more like a grimace.

Blondie turns back to the the barman, before turning sharply and heading straight for you. For the first time in a long time, something a therapist _wouldn't_ worry about has caught your attention.

He hesitates once he reaches the table, and you realize that he's got the biggest eyebrows you've ever seen. Your smile-thing twitches and jitters, and you see his mouth moving.

Suddenly, you feel as if you're rising back to the surface—noises are suddenly flooding in, crashing in like sunlight and ripped curtains.

"...concerned he's wearing a _mask_?"

"It's a damn sight better, 'f I'm honest. He's done somethin' t's made a ruddy mess of his face."

You lick your chapped bottom lip, and stay surprisingly still while the green-eyed man reaches out and snatches your mask away.

x-

* * *

><p>-x<p>

It occurs to you later that you probably should have felt just a little bit offended.

Because when he got a look at you, the blonde—_Arthur_, he tells you—looks like a shoe-in for Christine Daae, post-Phantom face reveal.

Except it was a pretty quick shift to almost motherly concern. One hand reached out to grip one of the shaking, shivering, five-fingered masses attached to your wrists, your arms, your neck and shoulders. Distantly related to the 'ruddy mess' you've made of your face.

He breathed out some semi-important nonsense that might have been an English curse and asked, "_How long have you been awake?_"

Not 'When did you last sleep?'

'How long have you been awake?'.

You find that you really can't answer the question.

x-

* * *

><p>-x<p>

It's fortunate, really, that you met Arthur when you did. He feels responsible for you, in his odd little way, far more than his brothers did. He makes a strong case, and suddenly you've been inherited by a cafe. A clean place, where you practice hearing and something like awareness.

And something about the boy makes you feel as if there's clarity in the air, that you might be getting 'better'. Not necessarily 'sober'. You're still arguing over that, because the Brit has a nasty little habit of switching your coffee for apple juice when he sees or smells a hint of alcohol, and you've at least regained enough dignity not to dump alcohol into something off the kid's menu.

And when he doesn't catch you, and Elizaveta is too busy to render any threat of violence, a missing person watches you until you put it away.

Under your breath, you say his name, or make some strained attempt at an apology.

You have never been particularly good at that part.

You wait for him to say something about the curtains, but he never does.

x-

* * *

><p>-x<p>

Instead, you look up to see Arthur with a pot full of Elizaveta's 'miracle' coffee in one hand, the other braced on his hip.

He repeats, "More coffee?"

So you hold up your mug obediently, and he pours another measure of fresh, hot morning blend.

The first sip tastes like hope and sweat.

..._But it's all in your head._


	5. Real

**A/N:**My deepest apologies for the wait. Ironically, I know where I'm going with this story—it's making sure all of the players make it for their cue and engage in logical conflict that gives me trouble. I think I may finally have a feasible way to run this, so I finally felt comfortable putting this out for you. It's pretty hard working with as many characters as I've forced on myself. T.T

**Fandom: **Hetalia

**Pairings: **US x UK, _**'**_FR x CAN_**'**_, AUS x HUN

**Rating: **M

**Disclaimer: **I make no profit from writing this. Beat it, briefcase.

* * *

><p><em>We need to realize that in real life, as in fairy tales, there is almost always a wolf.<br>He dresses nicely, and speaks well, but he__ will always be a wolf._

* * *

><p><em><strong>F<strong>__igments_

-3-

_**R**__eal  
><em>

* * *

><p>-x<p>

For a brief moment, Arthur worried that the wide palm and work-worn fingers enveloping his own hand would tighten and crush the pale appendage. It was silly, he told himself, to be so put off by a simple handshake, but not necessarily _irrational._

Seamus had callouses like that—face breaker callouses, on his knuckles. This man had callouses all over his palm, as well. Arthur hated to admit to any prejudice, but it unnerved him more than a little to see the spark of intelligence in those eyes.

He was a strategist, and he had already taken stock of the smaller man.

The blonde nearly jumped clean out of his skin when the man laughed again, deep and rich. He didn't spend much time around other men—at least, not men still capable of laughter—so the sound came as a bit of a shock. "I…er…"

Arthur blinked a bit stupidly, realizing that, first, he was still shaking the man's hand and that, second, he was _staring _at it. He felt his cheeks color slightly.

"Sorry about that, Mr. Rome." He released the grip, fingers darting away to smooth a stray wrinkle in his work shirt, not once approaching his pockets or belt loops. _Etiquette_, he reminded himself, _etiquette. _No matter how much his instincts told him to curl inward, his own exacting standards straightened his stance.

And it very nearly all flew to hell when the man _bellowed_ out another hearty laugh. The Brit took a step back, watching with odd fascination as the man collected himself and brushed a tear from his eye.

He glanced back over his shoulder to find the others still silent, though Alfred's silly grin was still plastered on his face. His hand twitched, and Arthur could just _feel _the boy resisting the urge to give him a thumbs up.

"Ahh, please, call me _Romulus_."

"Forgive me…Romulus?" As in the cofounder and first ruler of Rome, the one who laid the brickwork for one of the greatest empires in human history? Before he could think to halt his own tongue, Arthur heard himself mumble, "My, weren't your parents ambitious, naming you after someone like that…"

There was no laughter, this time. The genial smile the man had sported before was replaced with a serious expression. He shook his head, his eyes seeming to dim a little. "Not quite, my friend."

…What was he supposed to say to that? Here he was, standing in the middle of some posh new gallery with the sheen still on the floor, nearly craning his neck to keep eye contact with what must have been the owner, and he'd just _insulted _the man.

The very large, very imposing man. Pride aside, Arthur willingly admitted to himself that he wouldn't mind the familiar weight of a faerie at his shoulder or even in his hair right about now. …But there weren't any, which was more than a little strange.

Faeries were _everywhere_, it seemed, all the time. On any given day, he couldn't even _sneeze_ without a chorus of soft, lyrical voices harmonizing a 'bless you' or a 'gezundheit' or even a tinny, indignant, 'watch it!'.

But something about this place, and this man, seemed to repel them.

Arthur shifted his weight, wringing his hands briefly before sharply pulling them apart and returning them to his sides. "Ah…" He cleared his throat and wet his lips, preparing to try again for some acceptable conversation, but Romulus lifted a hand to indicate silence.

_Oh, hell_.

"I can see that you are unnerved, and understandably so. You possess a great gift, to see as you are able to see. It is what makes your fated partnership with Alfred so smooth. To be needed is a wonderful thing, don't you think so, Arthur Kirkland?"

If he hadn't been frustrated with all of this before, Arthur certainly was now. He had come here with Alfred looking for answers, not to listen to some semi-poetic mostly cryptic Madame Cleo matchmaking schtick. He understood that the man was probably not joking—after all, some oozing mass of horror had tried to eat him a mere hour or so beforehand—but he was by no means enjoying this little narrative.

"I'm sorry," He frowned, "I'm afraid you've lost me."

"Your discomfort stems from your abilities. I mean to say, Arthur, that it is _natural_ for you to be uncomfortable here, because _I_ am _not._"

"Uncomfortable?"

"_Natural_."

Arthur couldn't say he was really surprised. As much as he hated it, things just couldn't be simple today. Things were going to get worse, of course, so Arthur made an appropriately attentive noise and  
>waited for the other shoe to drop.<p>

Romulus seemed pleased, smiling at him for a moment before continuing on, "I am a Remnant of Romulus—more specifically, _Romulus, Victor over Acron_—a painting brought to life."

Since when had Arthur stepped off the horror train and into a Disney movie?

"You're a painting."

"Alfred and Matthew are, as well."

Arthur glanced back at the named pair, hoping for some indication that this was all a horrible joke, but Matthew bit his lip and nodded and Alfred (frighteningly enough) had the presence of mind to look _serious_.

"You see, the two of them are very special, Arthur."

"You mean _other _than being sentient artwork?"

"I am serious, Arthur."

That left him quiet again.

"Alfred and Matthew were created with the intention of promoting the good will of men, but their creation left them a bit…incomplete. Alfred's vision, as you may have guessed, is impaired. The same is true  
>for Matthew's sense perception. <em>That <em>is where you and Francis come in."

"We're seeing eye dogs." Arthur mumbled, feeling a bit more comfortable with rationalizing, now that he had some information. It was just how he functioned.

"Something like that, yes. We use the term 'Spectator'. As a result of your innate abilities, I believed you would be a very Spectator, and judging from your encounter with that Fragment earlier, it seems I  
>was right."<p>

"Fragment?" Arthur repeated. He was fairly sure he knew what _that _referred to, but it was strange to hear the horrid thing given such a simple name.

"That big ugly bag of tar and teeth I shot earlier." Alfred supplied, eager to provide _some _information. Matthew shot him a sideways glance, but turned his eyes away when his brother smiled back.

Francis snorted.

"Fragments are a product of the negative conscious. They leak out from most any place you could imagine—nightmares, fears, worries…and they feed on people. They corrupt and hurt people, and destroy any peace of mind they can find. Perhaps a better name would be 'Madness'. That is where they come from, what they cause, and why they exist. Most can't see them, but you can, Arthur."

"…But _why_? I've never seen _anything_ like that before, and trust me, I've seen plenty of 'negative' things in my life. I've never seen _them_, not once, and suddenly you're saying they're _everywhere?_" He paused for breath, glaring up at the man who had taken the opportunity to shred what little pleasant feeling Arthur could still manage for his gray little world.

Anger was all he had left.

He caught a glimpse of Sasha biting at her lip, looking at him with raw, open sympathy, and suddenly Arthur felt very tired and very guilty. He turned himself to see everyone at once, if reluctantly. Even with a grim set to his lips, the broad, confident set of Alfred's shoulders was comforting.

"All right, then. If this is all true, _where did they come from_, and _why?_"

And Rome answered in the worst way imaginable, which was:

"We don't know."

Arthur's throat closed up. He wanted to cry, but he couldn't quite manage the energy for tears. "Brilliant." He choked, "That's a relief. Here I thought something _really horrible_ was going on…No. Just a tiny resistance group of living pictures fighting an endless horde of human corruption. Nothing to worry about."

"Hey, who said anything about endless? All we have to do is keep going 'til we find the big bad, and then we take 'em out. That's how it always is."

"In comic books, Alfred." Sasha nearly hissed, but then Romulus made a soft, disapproving sound, and she lowered her eyes to the floor.

"This whole _thing_ seems like a comic book. A really _awful_ comic book."

"Yeah," Alfred conceded, though he didn't sound entirely sincere, "But wait 'til you meet the other characters!"

"'Other characters'?" Arthur sighed, far more inclined to find a couch somewhere and curl up into a ball than to venture farther into this sad scenario, but then Alfred moved closer, his arm reclaiming its position around Arthur's shoulders.

He squeezed the smaller blonde against his ribcage before smiling brightly at the older…_painting_. "Is it all right? Can we take a break, maybe? Let everybody say hi?"

Romulus gave Arthur a concerned look before nodding, unable to resist the urge to smile when subjected to Alfred's infectious optimism.

"All _right_!" Alfred cheered before leaning in to whisper, "Ready to see something _awesome_?"

"I fail to s—"

Except just then, Arthur _did _see.

He saw the swirling mass of colors expanding from each of the paintings on the wall, reaching out first in a few slow-moving tendrils and gradually morphing into a riotous tangle of spiraling hues and shades. Slowly, each mass began to take on a shape until finally the colors faded off and there were _people _looking back at him.

"Er…um…hello."

-x 

* * *

><p>-x<p>

To Arthur's enormous relief, as introductions were made and pleasantries exchanged, the feeling of discomfort disappeared, a good bit of the hopelessness following after it.

These people…these _paintings_ were as fascinating as they were culturally diverse, each of them tracing their origins to different countries and eras, but all slotting together in a heavily-accented yet still-  
>functional mass.<p>

He wondered if the sudden feeling of ease was in knowing that there were _other _people out there who were stranger than _he _was, who thought of his sight as an asset rather than a bizarre quirk. It felt as  
>if, after long years of toil and trouble, he were finally being put into the honors group.<p>

That left him feeling just a little bit narcissistic, and he refocused on the most unusual man in the group: a tall, blonde Swede by the name of Berwald. He was, if anything, more terrifying in appearance than  
>Romulus, boasting the most intense blue-green eyes that Arthur had ever seen set in a stern but handsome face.<p>

He felt that he should be frightened of the man, but he wasn't. Something about him felt sad, though the spark of recognition when he locked gazes with Arthur had somehow left the Brit feeling about three  
>heads taller.<p>

Still, he hadn't spoken.

When Alfred had introduced him, he said, 'This is Berwald. He doesn't talk much…at all. He doesn't talk at all…' And then he'd looked up at the giant with some strange form of regret. As if he felt the need to apologize for something else, something much bigger, but could not manage to understand _what._

The others were fairly pleasant, if a bit cool.

The Japanese man—Kiku—who had emerged from the painting entitled _To Honor_ was almost awkwardly respectful, even as Alfred slapped him on the back and referred to him as his 'best bud'. Arthur could almost hear the steam whistling out of the other Asian man's ears.

'Yao', Alfred had supplied, 'from _Opium_. He, uh, doesn't like me much.'

In fact, Arthur got the feeling that a good majority of the other Remnants didn't like Alfred that much. To an extent, it was understandable. The boy _was _a bit hard to take, even Arthur could tell from their brief period of acquaintance. But then he'd seen the same looks quietly leveled at Matthew.

The only ones who seemed exempt were Berwald, Kiku, and the soft spoken brunette who had urged him to rest well, after all this, and not let Alfred tug him around too much.

'Toris,' Alfred said, 'I like him. He always seems so _sad_, though.'

'His painting?'

'Oh. …_Giving_.'

Arthur had taken a moment to watch as the kind man shuffled over to the broad Russian with the scarf—'Ivan. _The General's Boy_.'—and winced as long fingers grazed his arm. The Brit shivered himself at the  
>imaginary sensation of those icy fingers, studying the light dusting of snowflakes still melting in the childish man's hair…<p>

And then Ivan glanced back out of the corner of his eye, still smiling like a young boy, but Arthur had felt his heart and his throat constrict in tandem. The feeling only dissipated when he found a hold on  
>Alfred's arm, and Ivan looked away.<p>

After that, he stayed close to his new partner, wading through the remaining introductions with a pleasant smile stuffing the nervous anxiety back down his throat.

-x

* * *

><p>-x<p>

A short while later, with what seemed to Arthur like a simple change of attitude on the leader's part, all attention returned to Romulus.

A bit frustrating, honestly, as he had finally coaxed Matthew into stringing more than a few words together in a light conversation. He paid attention, all the same.

"I think it's time we let Arthur rest. He has been burdened with no small amount of information, today." The smile on his face was a little bit ironic, and Arthur felt as if he were being treated like a school child.

It wasn't as if this was some riotous house party—in fact, it was remarkably subdued. Either way, it had helped ease Arthur's troubled mind. What _else_ was he supposed to do? Return to his apartment by himself, _knowing _that the monsters were, in fact, no longer just under his bed or in his closet?

He caught himself pursing his lip at the dark-haired man and quickly schooled his features, but the amused chuckle told him he'd been discovered anyway. "Alfred, Matthew, Francis, you may go as well."

For a moment, Francis looked as if he might object, but Romulus cut him off with a final, "Be well. Sasha?"

The other members of the Exhibition bid them their quiet farewells before slowly sinking back into their portraits, and Sasha escorted them to the door. Just before he crossed back over the threshold, Arthur swore he could hear a deep sound, ringing somewhere between his bones and skin, and he cast a hurried glance back at Berwald.

He wasn't sure precisely what he saw, but it made him want to rip the other man back out.

"Alfred?" Arthur began softly, watching the other two blondes as they wandered in a loose group away from the gallery's façade.

"Yeah, Arthur?"

"Berwald's painting. You didn't tell me what it was called."

"Uh….huh?" Alfred blinked slowly…once, twice…before a frown creased his brow. His light-hearted expression gave way to one of deep confusion as he struggled to come up with the answer. It seemed almost as if he were in pain…

"Eh, Alfred!" Francis called suddenly, jarring him from his concentration, and Arthur could hear his breathing quicken. "Don't think too 'ard, you'll 'urt yourself!"

Arthur didn't bother snapping at the Frenchman. He was too focused on Alfred—the strange, bewildered look, oddly similar to the one he'd given Berwald. As if he'd forgotten something important.

But a moment later, he shook it off, offering one of his little 'sorry, sorry, whatever' smiles as he shrugged his shoulders.

"Sorry. It's untitled."

-x

* * *

><p>-x<p>

Sasha stood at the door for a few moments after showing the men out, hoping against hope that time would just stop there.

But no one was ever so lucky.

She heard the soft, lazy footfalls of the Caretaker behind her, and then the tired, syrupy humming sounds that told her it was one of those days where he probably couldn't even remember his own name. He whispered over the floor, humming and breathing and she waited for the silence to snap in half.

"Sasha."

The sleepwalking man with the soft chocolate hair and the half-opened eyes paused for a moment, wondering if maybe that were his name before she answered, "Yes, Father Rome."

The Caretaker continued sweeping, and probably did not hear much else.

"Relax. Have a little faith. Why don't you go for a swim?"

The water reached out for her, and she let herself be pulled in. As the tides receded and the surface of the painting settled, she returned to her familiar stasis, waiting by the shore for someone who could  
>not come, staring into the <em>Depths of Sky<em>.

-x

* * *

><p>-x<p>

"She wears her heart on her sleeve." The voice came, as always, rich and warm and just deep enough—a perfect Spanish drawl.

He knew about girls, and about their hearts.

"Is that so? I'm starting to think I should cut off that ugly jealous throbbing." There is no inflection. No anger or annoyance, just a statement of fact.

_What good is art, if it is not beautiful?_

"I've heard that jealousy is the nature of a woman."

"Natural as seduction."

…That depended.

"He almost died, today. It was close."

"Concerned?"

Something seemed to stir at the edges. Poison green eyes swept the length of the space, roving from piece to piece before settling on one.

"About what?"

A new smear of red decorated the soft white landscape.

Berwald had spat more blood across the snow.

-x

* * *

><p><p>

And wolves are liars.


	6. III

_Metropolis:_

mtr- _mother ; _polis- _city._

_A true city is a place where children can grow under the watchful eye of the people. Outside of the Walls, no growth is certain._

_x  
><em>

* * *

><p>x<p>

**T**hird **I**nterlude

_Fall, Wolf._

_x  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>x<br>_

Prussija was thrilled the first time he felled a wolf.

He carried the beast home draped across his shoulders, the strong, corded muscles still forming in his youth flexing under his skin. If his shoulders had heaved with the effort, it only served to glorify the kill—the wild dog rose and fell with his breath, almost as if it were still alive.

And he had conquered it—_him_, Lumeria's boy!

Certainly, his father would be proud, and his brothers awestruck. They would have a proper example to follow, now.

It escaped the youth, then, just why his once-proud father had been so hesitant to show his sons this glory, this death.

x

* * *

><p>x<p>

Lumeria had been a great warrior, once; stories of his prowess lingered still, but he took no joy in hearing them.

Instead, after the death of his wife, he had retired from his illustrious position in the armies, ignoring all protests. With him, he took his three sons: Prussija, Alemania, and Sacro, significantly younger than the other two.

His wife had been lost in the struggle for the child's birth, but for all of his brute accomplishments and violent renown, Lumeria would allow no shadow of doubt or blame to fall upon the boy.

Sacro was his pride and joy—the last great gift left to him by the proud and stubborn woman he had considered his closest friend and partner.

Something had changed in the great dog of war; something had softened.

x

* * *

><p>x<p>

Prussija and Alemania could not understand it.

They had been reared in a world that praised competition and brute strength. Everything was struggle and celebration of the human will to rend and conquer—to stand shoulder to shoulder with their fellows and fight to their last breath.

Their fondest memories were steeped in polish, leather and metal—the recollection of a strong hand smoothing unruly locks as the infallible patriarch departed for another campaign, another great struggle.

At times, their mother's uplifting arms seemed more like a barrier than a helpful boost. Why would she hold them so tightly? Why shouldn't they go with their father?

It seemed so much like a game that they were not yet old enough to play.

Scars were trophies, and shadowed eyes seemed to hold a thousand promising secrets—all of them, private deaths and last wishes, piercing the flesh like macabre medals, never to be extracted.

It was natural to play at fighting and killing.

It was a birthright, and it was what was expected of them.

They had been taught to _want _it.

x

* * *

><p>x<p>

Still, they were intelligent children, blessed by their mother's clever independence and a deep-seeded love for their changed parent.

For all that they mocked and jibed, they knew that their father's tired smile was a sign.

They went with him to their new home, their hermitage, and accepted this new closeness to the natural world. It would give them a chance to hunt, the eldest insisted, basking in the chance to finally _kill_ something.

Alemania was not so quick to wring the life he had grown with from the forest beyond their home.

He watched his father's troubled smile and took Sacro's hand when it seemed the man could not, when he was too lost in the world beyond them.

His younger brother would grip back as tightly as he could, and Alemania would have to remember not to answer with a tighter grip, a play for dominance.

The child would look up at him with eyes sweeter than any candied fruit and ask him gentle questions. He would idolize him, it seemed, for _nothing_.

He had won nothing, and the boy mimicked the way he and his father moved and spoke. In Lumeria's absences—and there were absences, for the man had taken to going on long, quiet walks for uncertain periods of time—Sacro would hide behind Alemania when Prussija began his loud and rumbling boasts.

The eldest of their number did _try _to be good to the child, but it was not in his nature to be soft and quiet the way his relatives could.

He wanted to be able to give the shy, smiling child something to admire, the way his father and brother did, but it was a difficult thing.

In the end, death was all he had to offer.

x

* * *

><p>x<p>

When Prussija laid the lifeless animal before his youngest brother, he had honestly not been expecting the reaction that he received.

The boy had been playing tag with what seemed to be empty air, but he laughed and leapt about, all the same. The lack of companions was something that the eldest son could not yet comprehend, but he recalled the rush of adrenaline and life inherent in the sport and silently approved.

With a high, spirited laugh he had called the boy to come and see what he had brought. He cast Alemania a bright, proud grin when the middle child came to the open door to investigate the noise.

He relaxed a bit when he saw that it was only his brother, but he couldn't hide his surprise and concern when he saw the burden weighing on the man's straining shoulders.

"Prussija, don't—" He began a warning, taking a firm step forward, but Sacro was already racing toward the hunter, rosy-cheeked and curious.

When the eldest laid the corpse on the grass for inspection (and a momentary rest), he was shocked to see the boy go still, his eyes growing wide as tremors rattled his small body.

Sacro made a soft, mournful keening sound and cast himself over the dead thing, holding it as if it had been a dear friend.

For all Prussija knew, it could have been. As the youngest grew, Lumeria began taking him on more and more of his little trips into the wild, teaching him strange lessons about medicines and clean water.

To Prussija and Alemania, the information seemed inconsequential, but at least the middle brother knew not to challenge the fragile peace of that sphere.

Suddenly, Prussija felt self-conscious in a way he had not since he was very small. It was as if he had once again broken something very special to his mother—a woman, something to be protected—and violated her sacred world. The shame was aggravated by the lack of blame, the trembling insistence that it had been a mistake, and that he should not cry so.

But he hadn't been crying.

His eyes had stung, and he had bitten his lip until blood dyed his ignorant little tongue.

Standing over Sacro and the motionless wolf, he felt himself similarly suspended. His nails bit sharply into his palm, and for reasons he himself could not understand, he knelt down in the dirt.

At the sound of grinding earth and shifting cloth, the child looked up, blue eyes wide and wet, and abandoned the bitter trophy to throw himself upon his brother. He trembled still, but it didn't stop him from embracing the conflicted youth with all the strength he could manage.

His tears were wet against Prussija's soft white hair, followed by feathery kisses peppered here and there—wherever Sacro could reach.

He whispered, "It's all right" and other strange platitudes as he did his best to push all of his affections out of his tiny body and into his brother's, directly through the skin.

Even without the knot in his throat, Prussija didn't think he could find anything to say.

It didn't make sense, but he understood it.

It was there in his shame, and the aching in his limbs—the feeling that he had been injured as well, and that his brother mourned for _him_.

He looked helplessly at Alemania, but the other youth could only shake his head.

What they were, where they were, and how their lives had changed, neither of them could begin to understand. It wasn't for them to do anything but wait.

There was very little they could do for a very long time.

x

* * *

><p>x<p>

By the time Lumeria returned, the wolf had disappeared—perhaps disposed of, perhaps stored away—and there was only a faint trace of blood in the grass.

All three of his children met him when he came up the path.

Sacro did not run to meet him, but waited patiently between Prussija and Alemania. In fact, he seemed to be hiding himself, very slightly, against his eldest brother's leg.

It had been a strange day, very strange.

He thought he might have seen something red in the green surrounding their home, but his eyes lingered only briefly.

Seeing his children standing quietly together, as if waiting for some storm to come, Lumeria had the faint sensation that he had failed them.

Perhaps they shouldn't have left the city…

He shook his head.

Perhaps they had had a little fight. Prussija seemed a bit ruffled, and it had always been a habit of Sacro's to panic when his brothers argued.

Chuckling softly at his own moody thoughts, he offered his children an amused quirk of the lips, "I met someone very strange today. Prussija, Alemania, I think you would like him."

x

* * *

><p>x<p>

He made no mention of Sacro, because the man would have frightened him.

That boy was the center of their little world.

Would that he had not seen the wolf.


End file.
